


Even Good Dogs Bite

by folie_a_yeux



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: A new use for ties, Alternate Ending, Biting, Dom/sub, Hate Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, POV Multiple, Tender Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folie_a_yeux/pseuds/folie_a_yeux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You once told me death is nothing but sound and light.” Will’s hold on the fishing knife twists the blade wicked in the dim light, dancing reflections on deep red walls. “Tell me, Doctor Lecter,” he breathes — and he can hear the tears in his throat, can taste them burning the back of his mouth — “what do you think your death will sound like?”</p><p>Will breaks out of prison to kill the man who framed him for murder. Hannibal quickly disarms him, and convinces him to give in his dark desires… but Will still has one trick the good doctor isn’t expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Good Dogs Bite

It's exactly 9:07 when Hannibal smells him.  
  
The faint _click_ of the clock piece on his desk almost a warning, a sharp shift in the taste of the room. The rank stench of detergent and broth crawling against his prison clothes. The moss clinging to his shoes.  And underneath it all, overtaking the rest, the sting of oak and sweat and sea. That complex bouquet of tenderness and betrayal.

“Hello, Will.”

He takes care to place his scalpel next to his pencil before standing, smoothing his suit, and smiling up at the landing. A calculated move. A gesture of goodwill, and a study in insulting disinterest.

"Hello, Doctor Lecter.”

Will hasn’t been eating. Two days since he escaped Chilton’s zoo (Hannibal can’t use the word _doctor_ to refer to Frederick Chilton, even in thought, though _specialist_ suits him) and it’s dragging him at the corners, carrying itself in his heft. His dark hair is a mass of whisper-snarl curls shrouding pale skin, jawline rough with stubble, his shoulders almost twitching to the rhythm he blinks, to the hitches of his breath.

He thinks Hannibal doesn’t see it. He does.

***

“Come. Sit by me.” Hannibal moves to the front of his desk and rests against it. Smooths out the legs of his white linen suit. Removes a speck of lint from the end of one cuff. Waits.

 Will doesn’t move. A petty rebellion, the smallest gesture toward self-control, but he’ll take what he can.

 Then he climbs down.

“Good, Will. Good.”

Hannibal gazes at him approvingly, only briefly flickering over the mud he’s tracking into his office. The knife hold his attention longer.

“You once told me death is nothing but sound and light.” Will’s hold on the fishing knife twists the blade wicked in the dim light, dancing reflections on deep red walls. “Tell me, Doctor Lecter,” he breathes — and he can hear the tears in his throat, can taste them burning the back of his mouth — “what do you think your death will sound like?”

A delicate pause. Dark eyes meet blue eyes, narrowing almost into slits, before Hannibal’s face relaxes and the muscles ease.

“I would hope for a symphony, of course,” he replies at last. “And that I would be the only one to hear it.”

There is no horror in his expression, no anger. Not even the gratification of contempt. If anything, he looks amused. A new way for his toy to _go_.

And so it’s not surprisingly to either of them, really, when Hannibal lunges forward, wrenches his arm, and slams it onto the side-table, the knife slicing Will’s fingers as the doctor yanks it from his grasp.

“Will, Will, Will.”

Hannibal takes out his handkerchief, wipes the blade, and tosses it to the far corner. It clatters with embarrassing finality. “There was no need for that. No need for that kind of hurt.”

He catches Will’s hand, and presses delicately on the tips, blood caught between the flesh it is escaping and the flesh that forces it back in. His suit is wrinkled from the leap. A few specks of blood are soaking into the white, white linen, and Will takes a moment to think, idiotically, that there’s no way that stain will ever come out.

Hannibal presses down, hard. “You know we’ll always end up here.” It’s almost a caress now, one hand wrapped around his wrist, the other lifting his bruised fingers to eyes that examine them clinically, searching for a permanent wound. Then he takes Will’s face in his hands, and locks the blue eyes in his black ones.

“You’ve known it since the beginning, since the first time you offered up your mind to me.” One thumb traces the line of stubble, stroking from Will’s jawbone to the catch of his throat. “Before you could admit it to yourself.”

And the worst part is, he’s right. Will’s known for months, now. Thrashing itself into his dreams, bleeding into his lusts and nightmares. Flames and blood. Feathers and thorns. He’d felt this moment coming, tasted the iron stinging his throat where the antlers grow. Before Hannibal set his brain aflame and he dissolved into nothingness. Before the fire and the darkness became one and the same.

So when Hannibal leans down and bites gently on the bleeding fingers, drinking the pain that beats from him like a wound, Will gives in to the fire, and buries his mouth in a tender monster’s throat.

***

Never, such unadulterated hatred. Never, such an intoxication of betrayal and gratitude, of bitterness and longing.

Hannibal has tasted fear before. He has never tasted rage.

Will’s hands are shaking too hard to undo the crisp buttons on Hannibal’s shirt, jacket and pants slung off and laid over the edge of a chair. So Hannibal guides him, holding his hands as his fingers yank and tear, face sinking into the crease of Hannibal's forearms, murmuring his hate into his arms.

Hannibal moves to kiss him, to claim his mouth as he’s claimed his mind, and Will pushes him back. All quivering flame against walls of ice, eyes liquid dark in stubbornness and wanting. He strips off his ratty white shirt, slips out of his baggy prison pants, and kicks his feet free.

Then Hannibal's shirt is finally open, and the tie drops on the edge of the desk, and he is tired of playing, tired of allowing Will to believe there’s any part of him that remains in control. In one smooth motion, Hannibal reaches forward, takes Will’s hair in his hand, and pulls him in. He pivots them, pushing Will face-first against the mahogany desk as he leans over, reaches down, and eases his underwear off, cradling Will’s cock in one hand.

“Remarkable boy,” he whispers, left hand stroking lovingly as his right holds Will to him, splayed hand pressing against heaving chest.

He laughs a bit, thinking of the olive oil he keeps on his desk — to polish the wood, to keep it dark — before taking it and slicking his left hand, his own hard cock. Hair fallen loose from its civilized mane. His nostrils flare out as he presses his cock against the beautiful curve of Will’s ass, as he hears Will let out one agonized moan.

He works slowly. Breaching him one fingertip, one finger, at a time. Rutting against him, pressing and pulling, guiding as he moves forward, hand tugging harder against Will’s cock as he pulls cruelly back.

“Does it make you feel better to believe I made you this way?” He works three fingers in, deeper, curving his large hand to tease Will’s prostate. He slicks his cock with oil again. Moves his left hand down to cup Will’s velvety sack. To feel the pulse and life of heart and cock and stomach and brain.

"I—"

He enters him slowly, guiding himself fully inside. Will jerks, a flash of white shoulders against Hannibal's dark, thick arms. Clenches around him, so tight and hot that it takes all Hannibal’s considerable control not to thrust forward, to tear him apart. As his legs shake and Will's moans turn to gasps.

The shudders are no longer mixed with grief or pain. Nothing but pure, undiluted want. His Will. All his.

He pulls almost all the way out, then buries himself slowly again, holding Will’s hips against his as he leans in.

And perhaps it’s realization of just how fragile this body is compared to his own, how easy it would be for Hannibal to crush this head, to eat this beating heart, that reminds him that Will is _not_ fragile, not weak. That his favorite puzzle will always be the clawing of a mind trapped in a brittled body, that the hands that claw at his desk, the strong, quivering thighs, the delicate cords in this gasping neck, are nothing but a cage to hold what Hannibal truly desires.  
  
Still clasping Will to him with his right hand, he takes his left from Will’s cock, runs his fingers through his sweet boy's tangled hair. Then he reaches for his tie, takes the navy silk, and wraps it around Will's neck, tugging his head back as sharp teeth scrape gently against one fine cheekbone, as his red tongue laps at the tear still trembling near his eye.

Then he drives in, all self-possession forgotten, and buries himself in his possession, lungs devouring Will’s scent, driving again and again, drunk on light and sound. On the power of the hunt, the blood over his hands, the cord around his neck, the knife in the dark.

He lets the tie loosen, arches his back, and feels the world explode. As his hand is covered in hot, white cum. As Will shudders, and screams, and finally goes still.

Hannibal slides out gently, letting Will hunch over the desk, lungs heavy and full. Uses his spare handkerchief to wipe them both, covers Will with his own stained shirt, and slips linen pants over his own lean, muscled hips.

“It doesn’t matter who killed them. My good Will. My warrior of light.” Hannibal leans over and kisses Will’s back, licks the salt off his shoulder blades. His own muscles aching with need, still taut from the feel of him, hungry, impatient with patience. “I may have put their bones on your lures, but you were the one who showed me where to find them. You believed you killed Abigail, before I showed you the truth; but that doesn’t mean you’re saved.

“You’ve always belonged in the dark. With me.”

“I would disagree,” Jack Crawford says from above them. “I would also say that you’re under arrest.”

***

It may the only time Will gets to see Hannibal surprised. He tries to savor it.

“Dr. Crawford, I can assure you…” the doctor begins.

He can’t even commit to a finish. Always, Will knows, ravenous for the end. Finish the game, make the riddle out. Rip the innards from the world, if it means seeing beauty in how its body is formed.

“You couldn’t have,” he tells Will. Like a panther caged now, stilled, steeling. Too calmly contained by the handcuffs at his wrists. “I can read you better than anyone. My Will. My open book.”

Will smirks. That lovely twisted smile. As full of regret as triumph, of pain as pride. Broken and bound, shattered and whole. “I guess you taught me a few things after all.”

And it is as he’s looking at Will’s smile, following the curve of it, that he realizes.  “You wouldn’t let me kiss you,” he murmurs. His eyes widen, black consuming the white. “You knew you wouldn’t be able to hide there, not from me.”

And before Jack, or Beverly, or anyone can stop him, Hannibal lunges forward and takes Will’s mouth in his, thin cruel lines over thick, full lips.

_A kiss. Oh, my Will. I should have known I’d never have you any way else._

Will feels Hannibal’s breath taking him in. His lips devouring him. Finally, totally claiming him.  


Will bites down, hard.

Hannibal jerks back. His tongue flicks to the blood sprinkled across his lips, dripping across his chin. He grins.

“Remarkable boy,” he repeats. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to AO3 user salvage for her initial feedback.
> 
> Also: I know the sex would make this evidence inadmissible in court. Shoosh.


End file.
